Title: A Thoroughly Modern Kitchen
Author: Ashlea Ensro
Feedback: to theconsortium6@hotmail.com. Flames will be used for
unmentionable purposes.
Rating: R
Archive: Anywhere, just let me know.
Category: SRA
Spoilers: "Demons", "Talitha Cumi", little "FTF" reference.
Keywords: AU, MulderMom/The Consortium
Disclaimer: It's probably a good thing that they don't belong to me.
Summary: A lonely woman contemplates three lives.
Musings of a Non-Smoking Author: So, I was wondering about "The
Choice"...yeah, that one...what *was* it exactly, who made it, really,
and
what would have happened if he or she made a different choice. I was
wondering...what would happen if Fox was abducted instead of Samantha
(okay, our favourite TV show wouldn't have happened, but *besides*
that...)? I was wondering...what if Teena Mulder ended up married to
Strughold and living on a bee plantation in Tunisia? And I was
wondering...was I actually capable of writing a happy ending? With
schmoop involved? And hope and redemption and all that?
Well, let's see, shall we?
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"They had a thoroughly modern kitchen
Self-cleaning oven (the whole bit)
Frank drove a little sedan
They were so happy..." -- Tom Waits _Frank's Wild Years_
Part One: Joan of Arc
"I met a lady
She was playing with her soldiers in the dark
One by one she had to tell them
That her name was Joan of Arc..." -- Leonard Cohen _Last Year's Man_
I
The Mulders' Summer House
Quonochontaug
Present Day
And she was crying because the furniture was draped in plastic.
The old woman trailed her hand over what had once been the kitchen
table, what was now just an amorphous ghost of translucent white. She
was a translucent white ghost herself, silvery, shimmering faintly in the
early morning light.
She had been beautiful once. Men loved her, loved her fatally,
tragically.
But now she was alone.
Now she was crying.
And the furniture was draped in plastic.
***
The house looked almost the same as it had right after the divorce.
She had wanted to sell it then, but she had never gotten around to it.
The lamps in the living room were shattered, one door was half-open -
the house would be cold now, forever. Sea sand covered the floor,
blown in by years of wind.
She could smell the sea - and it had changed.
Even the sea, despite what *he* had said.
Teena Mulder sat at the kitchen table, burying her face in her hands.
Light transformed the room, slowly, subtly, around her.
He had once told her - pleaded with her - to lead a life without
regrets. That had been a long time ago.
Even then, they had known how impossible it was. There were choices -
there had always been choices - and one would have to live with the
burdens.
Regret, regret was-
- regret, and she would live with it.
The taste of her own tears was the taste of the sea as it streamed
from her hazel eyes, running down the creases in her face.
She stopped crying before the doorbell rang.
II
Martha's Vineyard
Present Day
And she was crying because everything was so bright, so perfect.
She had just polished the floor, leaning the phone against her
shoulder as she mopped and scrubbed. The white tiles seemed to glow,
the entire kitchen was blinding white.
She had been beautiful, once.
But she had sacrificed that beauty to practicality - she was a widow now,
not some young girl. Bill had passed away a few years ago - bless his
soul - and she had no reason to look attractive. She had the house to
mind, and her grandchildren to fuss over - her hair was cut short and
her dresses were long and matronly.
Her daughter's voice, laughing, rang in her ears. She had just put
Billy down for his nap, Christine was making noise in the family room. How
was the husband? Steve was just, just-
Fine.
Everything was fine.
So lucky, to have such fine grandchildren, such a good daughter to call
every Sunday, married to such a nice young man.
Such a kitchen, sparkling white.
***
She had painted the whole house, after Bill had died. Catharsis,
Samantha had called it. Teena wasn't so sure, but she had nodded.
Sometimes Samantha's logic was hard to follow. She was like her
father, that way.
She missed Bill, even now, missed the sound of his voice in the
morning, missed the warmth and security of his body at night. With
Samantha's encouragement, she had gotten on with her life - yes, life
continued, life had to continue.
Always.
She rarely cried for Bill, and never with Samantha or the children
around. Instead she painted, tidied things, cleaned the floor.
She could still lead a happy, productive life.
She could.
Yes.
The taste of the tears running down the hollow of her cheeks was as
sweet as a summer breeze.
She brushed them away at the sound of the doorbell.
III
Tunisia
Present Day
She had to open all of the windows in the kitchen to let the slightest
breeze in, and it was still too hot. Sighing, she pushed up the
sleeves of her white cotton blouse and sat in front of the old-fashioned
fan, letting it blow her hair and dry the sweat from her forehead.
Outside, she could see the servants working in the field, their hair
wrapped in turbans, shirtless, their loose pants made of hemp, muscles
glistening in the afternoon sun as they carried water back from the river.
A faint buzzing, then a cry. One of the men had been stung. His
companions rushed over to help him.
It happened all the time.
She never thought of it, usually.
***
There was a verandah out back, a parasol under which she sometimes sat,
relishing even the small circle of shade. Her skin was still pale,
even after all these years - she was a child of cooler climates. Conrad
had laughed, in the beginning, at her inability to tan. Snow White, he
called her. His ice princess.
Teena Strughold lit a cigarette and watched the servants work. A part
of her wondered whether the stung man would live or die - another part
of her told her not to worry. They had their jobs to do, and they knew
the risks.
When Conrad was here, he forbid her to smoke, and she relished the taste
of nicotine when he was away. He was away now - London, was it? He
never took her with him anymore.
Too dangerous, he had said.
Dangerous, she wondered, dangerous for who?
*He* had died on this same verandah, wheezing out his last breath in
her arms. He had been the last to go - after Bill and Ronald, after the
others - Teena and her husband were the only ones left alive. He had
waited until Conrad had left, approached her quietly, and placed his
larger hands around hers.
Don't try to save me, he had told her. He had taken the pills, and he was
ready to go. His work was over - he would leave his legacy to younger,
stronger men, men with fewer passions, fewer ideals.
Her hand had lingered over the metal coolness of the gun as she stared
into his eyes.
I'm so tired, he had whispered.
Then sleep. Her reply, as she pulled the trigger.
A year passed, and she hadn't forgotten the look on his face. He had
been so calm.
She clung to life with a certain viciousness, desperation, with the
certainty that she would be the last one standing.
And at night - at least on the nights when Conrad didn't come home -
she quietly wept for him.
The taste of her tears was bitter, a peculiar mix of desert sweat and
sickly sweet honey.
She sat there, lost in thought, until she heard the knock at the door.
Part Two: Just a Lifetime
"A Technicolor thrill
It costs a fortune so it must be real
For just a little sip
We'll be waiting just a lifetime..." -- The Legendary Pink Dots _Just A
Lifetime_
II
Martha's Vineyard
October 13, 1960
"It's beautiful." A quiet intake of breath, from a girl who had once
only known broken floors and crowded houses.
Bill Mulder laughed, sweeping his wife's tiny body off the ground and
whirling her around.
"Do you like it?"
"Can we afford it?"
"Of course we can."
"Then I love it." Her mouth still half open, she trailed her hands
over the plastic-draped kitchen table, the new stove, everything so...
new.
A whole new life.
Teena tried to match her husband's laugh, and fell short. He didn't
notice. He grabbed her hand to lead her through the house.
"...And we'll put the TV in here, and the baby's room can be here..."
Yes, a baby. There would be a baby, wouldn't there?
There would have to be.
A baby. She had never considered it, really, other than the abstract
idea that she might desire children, at some point. A child. Maybe two.
Yes, two children filling the new kitchen with laughter, scattering
dirty little footprints across the polished white floor.
There would be two children. One to keep the other company, when Bill
was away, and she-
She was twenty-three, and so very tired.
After Bill left for work, she sat for a long time, her head a dead
weight in her hands, motionless in her thoroughly modern kitchen.
***
The cry from her throat was halfway between a laugh and a scream, her
wrists falling helplessly against the kitchen counter, the taste of
ash and salt on her tongue. She slipped down to the floor, a limp doll,
held up only by his hands pinning her against the cupboard.
"You don't want this," he breathed.
"Of course I do."
She could only be strong with him. With Bill she was passive, weak,
accepted his conquest with a sort of weariness that was incompatible
with her youth.
She bit at his lip, teasing. Cold blue eyes regarded her warily - she
could kill him with a single word.
"I'm dangerous." A feeble protest, made out of loyalty to an old
friend. She laughed.
"Dangerous?"
"Love," His fingers entwined with hers - she had the advantage now.
"Love is dangerous, Teena."
"You don't love me."
"No?" A wry smile as she pushed him onto the floor. She hated him - but
only for a moment.
"What if Bill were to find out...?"
Another kiss. "He won't."
"It's all a game to you, isn't it?"
"Is that what you think?"
"My little spy..." That was what he called her, for leading a double
life. "The consequences could be...devastating."
Teena grinned. "I can't wait." She turned serious within the same
instant. "We all make choices, don't we?"
He moaned softly, lost in her. "Do we?"
"I love you," Teena Mulder murmured to her husband's best friend.
"I know," he replied.
II
Quonochontaug
August, 1973
Bill's breath smelled of alcohol as he slipped into bed beside her.
"We need to talk."
His voice was slurred - drunk, again. Teena sighed, turning to face
away
from him.
"Not tonight, Bill."
"He's not mine, is he?"
"Bill - what are you talking about?"
His hand on her shoulder, roughly pulling her towards him. "It's
important. Don't you see...they're going to make us choose."
"I don't...I don't understand."
"One of the children. The boy or the girl. They're leaving it up to
us...and-" His mouth was so close to her ear that his words tickled,
reverberated in her skull. "There isn't going to be a choice, is there?"
"Go to sleep, Bill."
"Fox...he's not...Teena..."
"Go to sleep."
***
"Not Samantha! Not my baby!"
Bill grabbed her roughly by her wrists - she pulled away, feeling his
fingernails scrape across her skin, little beads of blood blossoming
along the scratches.
"Teena, will you just-"
"No!" She spun away from him to face the tall, silent man in the
shadows. "No no no!"
He watched her calmly, lifting the cigarette to his lips.
"How can you do this to our family!"
The blue eyes showed no emotion. "Why don't you tell her, Bill?"
"You son-of-a-bitch."
"I've been called worse."
She ran at him, pounding her small fists against his chest. "Not my
baby..."
"Tell her, Bill. Tell her how this...situation arose."
"You can't..." She collapsed sobbing, and Bill bristled - it wasn't her
husband she collapsed against. "No, you...can't..." A remote part of
her mind noticed the patter of little footsteps.
Fox.
No...no Fox, not now...
"Tell your wife who's to blame."
"Don't...don't let them..."
"You're a little spy..."
"My baby!"
Screams - the sound of a glass being shattered. Fox running - back to
his sister, back to sleep, and they would all later sleep, praying that
this night had been a dream.
"Do something," Teena Mulder pleaded with the man in the shadows.
He brought his hand up to touch her shoulder.
"Teena..." he whispered, "Don't you know there is always a choice?"
Part Three: Ophelia Wants to Know
"And the lies that you tell
I believed them so well
Take them back, take them back
To your red house
For that fearful leap into the dark
Oh, I did my time
In the jail of your arms
Now Ophelia wants to know
Where she should turn..." -- Tom Waits _Who Are You_
I
Martha's Vineyard
November 26, 1973
"It will happen tomorrow."
She couldn't believe the coldness with which he spoke...this man who
had
sworn to save her, to protect her at all costs.
"No."
"Tomorrow night. You and Bill will be invited to a neighbor's house,
leaving both of the children alone."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"This is your last chance."
"To choose between my children?"
"Yes."
"To hell with your choices."
He turned away slightly. "So be it."
"Goddamn you!"
"Save it for Bill."
"You've already made your choice."
"It's your decision, Teena."
"And what if I told you they were both yours?"
A stunned silence. "You're a liar."
"Am I?"
His shock vanished - the calm veneer returned, a slight smile. "I'm
proud of you, Teena. You play the game as well as any of my colleagues."
She slapped him, hard. He didn't fight back. He stood there for awhile,
then reached into the pocket of his jacket for the pack of Morleys.
"You bastard," Teena whispered.
Smoke masked the air between them. "Just remember," he said, "If you
don't choose tonight - they will choose for you."
***
The next night, Teena and Bill went for dinner at the Galbreds.
When they came home, Samantha was gone.
II
Martha's Vineyard
November 26, 1973
"It will happen tomorrow."
Teena's head lifted slightly from where she sat, slumped over the
kitchen table.
"No."
His voice wavered - already strangely afraid. Already old.
"Tomorrow night. You and Bill will be invited to a neighbor's house,
leaving both of the children alone."
"Why are you telling me this?"
"This is your last chance."
"To choose between my children?"
"Yes." He swallowed hard, reaching for the pack of Morleys. It was
empty. "To choose."
"Between your child, and his."
He walked to the window, pressed his forehead against the glass. His
knuckles were white, fists clenched. She was glad that she could no
longer see his eyes.
"Does Bill know?"
Teena nodded. "He...he drinks too much. He's under so much
pressure...he...he takes everything out on Fox."
"Because he knows."
"Yes." She walked over to him, tentative, placed a hand on his arm.
"The child - my child...will die?"
"They have told me that no harm will come to the child. I have every
reason to believe they can be held to their word."
She tried to detect any trace of irony in his voice - she found
nothing but toneless resignation.
"Then...if I send Fox...he'll be safe from Bill."
Silence was an affirmation. He pulled away from her, his head bowed. He
had never been an emotional man, but his face was twisted with grief.
"I'm sorry." It sounded hollow, even in her own ears. She wanted
desperately to hold him, to let him cry for once in his life - but she
did not.
He recovered quickly. The brief flash of agony departed almost before
it had begun.
"I will inform the group," he said stiffly. He made his way towards the
door.
She called his name as his fingers brushed the doorknob. He paused, the
only acknowledgment that she had spoken.
"Goodbye," she whispered.
She never saw him again. He erased himself from her life without
another word - leaving her a faithful wife with a loving daughter.
They took Fox the next evening.
III
Martha's Vineyard
November 26, 1973
"It will happen tomorrow."
Teena Mulder leaned against the polished stove in her thoroughly modern
kitchen.
"I know," she said.
The man standing in the shadows lit a Morley. "Gimmie one of those,"
Teena said. He hesitated a moment, held out the box to her. A flicker
of emotion crossed his face at the brief physical contact; then it
disappeared.
"You're asking me to choose," she continued, "And I'll tell you now, I
can't choose. I *won't* choose."
"Teena..."
"Don't 'Teena' me," she snapped, "If they wanted someone to
rationalize all this to me, they wouldn't have sent *you*. You're here
because you want to save your son. I can't blame you. Bill wants to save
his daughter. And I don't want either of my kids to be taken." She drew
in a long stream of smoke, blowing it back out in his face. "You just
don't understand, do you? I've put up with your games long enough."
"I have no say in the matter..."
"I know what's going on here." She laughed bitterly. "Do you think you
can keep me in the dark? Do you think I don't *know*...?" She stepped
up to him, her hazel eyes flashing. "I know enough. There were three
choices - and you and Bill neglected to inform me of one of them."
"Teena, I..." He took a drag of his cigarette. It was easier than
talking. "I don't know what you're talking about."
She grabbed his wrist, rough, her nails digging into his flesh so
deeply as to draw blood. "Bullshit." Her other hand dropped her cigarette
and almost with the same motion, knocked his cigarette out of his mouth.
He looked startled only long enough for her to place her lips where the
smoke had been.
For a moment she felt him surrender, his fingers smooth back her hair,
holding her tightly - and then she pulled away violently, sending him
sprawling against the wall.
"There were three choices," Teena repeated.
"Fox, Samantha..."
He cringed involuntarily.
"...Or me."
***
After she had gone, he and Bill Mulder wept in each other's arms.
There was nothing they could do.
She had made her choice.
Part Four: Open Wide
"Here is, here is my love and anger
You see now
These are my gods
These are my scars
Here is, here is my love and anger
Oh, these arms are burning
But they're open wide..." -- Indigo Girls _Keeper of My Heart_
I
Tunisia
Present Day
It was strange, when she thought about it.
It was strange, how much had happened.
She had been thinking of lives lost, of loves lost...listening to the
commotion outside as some of Conrad's people struggled to keep the
stung man alive.
He died, despite their efforts.
When the knock on the door came, it startled her. Such an everyday
ritual, so commonplace, and yet...
And yet it never seemed to happen anymore.
She recognized immediately the man who stood in the doorway.
He was still young, though almost imperceptible lines creased his
face, and his short hair grayed at the temples. Young, and handsome -
nearly the spitting image of his father. His hazel eyes were Teena's,
though, darkened and haunted with years of pain. He was successful in
the organization, she had been told, although they had taken efforts to
ensure that he never learned of her whereabouts. It would have complicated
his work - and he was one of the best men they had.
She swallowed back the words that formed in her throat. Let him speak
first, she decided.
"Teena?" Fox Mulder spoke cautiously, testing the words out. The words
of a twelve-year-old boy, who had never known the sacrifice his mother
had made for her children.
She swayed against the wall. He tried again.
"Mom?"
She could take it no more. She tossed her cigarette to the ground and
took him into her arms.
"Oh, Fox..."
He drew in a quick breath. "Samantha wanted to come - she booked the
flight and everything, and at the last minute they decided she had to
go to a conference, and she had to cancel but she'll be here in a few
days..." The words spilled out all at once. Teena understood - there
was so much she wanted to tell him.
"How did you find me?" she asked instead.
"Dad told me..." Teena repressed a smile. Dad. Fox's father had raised
both of the children after Bill had put a gun in his mouth on the first
anniversary of Teena's abduction. "He said..." Fox's voice was ragged
at the edges, torn. "He wanted to come clean, before he died." The wide,
doe eyes of the Consortium's best assassin turned towards her. "He is
dead, isn't he?"
She glanced out towards the back of the house. She had cleaned her
lover's blood off the verandah herself.
Silence. Affirmations.
"It took me almost a year to decide to come," Fox continued, "I know
why you kept it from me, but I..."
"Had to know." Teena smiled at her son. So much like his father, she
thought.
So much like her.
"Anyway, Samantha will be up in a few days. She's been busy lately. So
have-" He stopped. They stared at each other.
"I know what you did," Fox Mulder said, "Thank you."
II
Martha's Vineyard
Present Day
A quick powder concealed the fact that she had been crying - she was
running for the door in a few seconds. "Coming!" Teena Mulder called. A
four-year-old's giggle rose towards her as she turned the knob.
"Gramma!" Christine flung her arms around the old woman, scattering
kisses over her cheek, as Billy waved his chubby hand from Samantha's
protective embrace. Steve, smiling bountifully, put a protective hand
on his wife's shoulder.
"Hi Mom," Samantha said as Teena motioned the family inside. Christine
instantly went running towards the kitchen.
"Cookies!" the little girl was shouting, "Gramma, d'you make cookies?"
"Coo-kee," her baby brother echoed.
"I know I should have called," Samantha said, "But-" She faltered,
prompted only by Teena's encouraging smile. "I had to tell you in
person."
"Tell me what?" Teena knew - she had been through this twice already -
but she wanted to hear it from Samantha's lips. She had lived an ordinary
life, but even the most natural and ordinary of events could bring
revelations, could bring transformations.
She looked so much like her father.
Teena had loved Bill, despite his flaws - they had made a happy life
together. Every family faced tragedies, they told each other. Life
continued, despite everything. The drinking stopped when he retired.
They had lost one child, yes - a miracle simply not meant to be - but
Samantha had grown into a fine young woman, and they were proud of her.
A wonderful woman, if not exceptional, with a wonderful husband and
wonderful kids.
They filled the gap in her life that Bill had left.
Steve's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Well, um..."
"You see..." Samantha continued.
"Samantha and I..."
"...Or at least I am..."
"Pregnant." They spoke at the same time, exploding into giggles.
"We just came back from the doctor's," Samantha gushed, "It's going to
be another boy."
Teena closed her eyes - three times a grandmother now - a wide smile
spreading across her face. It was time to think of a response now, an
acceptable and ordinary reaction.
"Have you thought of names yet?" she asked.
"We've talked about it," Steve said. In the kitchen, Christine had
found the cookie jar, and informed them loudly of her discovery.
"We thought...if it's okay with you..." Samantha took a deep breath.
"His name will be Fox."
A crystal tear formed in the corner of Teena Mulder's eye, but her
daughter didn't see it.
III
Quonochontaug
Present Day
She didn't answer the door, instead calling out in a faint voice,
"Come in."
A series of steps, then a shadow appeared across the kitchen floor,
its edges blurred by the sand. She lifted her head at the clicking
sound of the cigarette lighter.
"Are you sure?" His voice was half-mocking, though not cruel. He
stepped into the light as she rose to meet him.
"What are you doing here?"
His lips curled upwards around the cigarette. "It's been a long time,
Teena."
"Not long enough."
"You don't mean that." His eyes were steely - the blue had drained from
them, leaving them pale icy grey. "I came to talk to you about your son,
actually. He has been causing problems for me, as of late. Very serious
problems. I thought that perhaps you might be able to talk to him,
prevent the situation from...getting out of hand."
Teena smiled faintly. "You don't mean that." The wind, streaming in
from the shattered window, lifted her hair slightly, and she felt as light
as air. "Come on. Have a seat. You've come a long way."
They sat down at the table. She noticed he didn't remove his overcoat.
It was getting to be late in the year, but still not that cold.
"You shouldn't smoke so much," Teena said in her best practical voice,
"You're not as young as you used to be."
"A cigarette is the perfect type of pleasure," he replied, "It is
exquisite, and it leaves one unsatisfied. What more could one want?"
She laughed softly. "Did you write that?"
"No." He leaned back in the chair, his gaze drifting out towards the
sea. "Oscar Wilde did. But it seems appropriate, don't you think?"
"If you came up here to tell me that you're dying, I'll never forgive
you."
"I'm not dying, Teena. Not that I know of, at any rate."
"Then why?"
His eyes were on her in an instant. "Maybe..." He shrugged, suddenly
ambivalent again. "Maybe I just wanted to talk to you."
Silence. Somewhere a gull was crying.
"I've often thought," he said, "That the mark of a successful life -
not a good life, mind you, but a successful one - was the ability to look
back, on all of one's triumphs and regrets...to look back and say that one
could not have foreseeably done it any other way."
"I know Oscar Wilde didn't say that," Teena said, "It's too
convoluted, and not nearly witty enough." She leaned across the table,
placed her small hands over his. "So, have you led a successful life?"
He smiled. "I believe so, yes." He removed one hand from under hers to
extinguish the cigarette. "And you, Teena Mulder?"
She closed her eyes, listening to the wind, the gulls, the sea.
"I don't know," she said, "It isn't over yet."
She felt him clutch her hand tightly, as the daylight drained away in
the distance, over the crashing waves.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
What was THAT?
A happy ending?
No more MomSlaps?
Did CSM finally get the girl? (No, not Ashlea!)
And she LIVED?
Write me and tell me how disgusted you
are...theconsortium6@hotmail.com